


Lightbox

by Pippin4242



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: M/M, Snogging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 04:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9368438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pippin4242/pseuds/Pippin4242
Summary: Hiruma never asks for anything if he can just take it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Squidbiscuit's [fantastic Eyeshield art](http://squidbiscuit.tumblr.com/post/128433366611/im-convinced-that-the-only-reason-this-isnt-a).

Hiruma Youichi was a cartoon.

Takami Ichirou, however, was a serious young man who had worked hard to earn his position as quarterback of the White Knights. He had hauled weights, counted press-ups, run up and down those legendary steps in driving rain, and stopped to support younger players as they retched and wept. He had worked harder than hard – after all, Takami had even had to pull himself back from the passion he felt on more occasions than he cared to remember. When the truly gifted athletes like Shin and Otowara were out killing themselves, Takami was the only player on the team who would have to slow down, take it easy, visit the doctor and ensure he never strained or damaged his once-injured leg any further. He would never say it aloud, but there were days when, watching even faltering young Sakuraba continue to train while he was sidelined, Takami felt sure that he was working harder than anybody else by sitting still and ignoring the fire in his legs which crazed him, and screamed at him to run on.

Hiruma Youichi was an idiot wearing prosthetics, blazing illegal weapons without apparent fear of punishment, with ridiculous bleached hair and who _wore two pairs of earrings at a time, and never took them out when he was on the field_.

Takami Ichirou was working behind the scenes, doing everything he could to keep his team blazing bright for one final season of glory. Quietly, he loved his players. He knew every name, kept a secret notebook listing birthdays, likes and dislikes, and acted on them wherever possible or prudent, with subtlety and warmth.

Hiruma Youichi kept a notebook marked 'threats,' thumbed through and indexed with a rainbow of sticky tabs. He openly added to it on the field, cackling and giggling. Takami had never once heard him refer to any of his team by name, and it was rumoured that several of his shifty band were only there under durance.

Takami Ichirou was the captain of a team seeing the dying of the light. The greatest athletes in his school's noble history had graduated, and he was left with all the expectation and little of the encouragement that, deep down, he shamefully felt sure he needed.

Hiruma Youichi was the captain of a team started for shits and giggles, from their stupid cutesy mascot to their horrible dog, which kept shitting by the side of the pitch and somehow never seemed to get the Devilbats into trouble. Their coach was a drunken reprobate, their clubhouse a complete and gaudy shitshow by all accounts, and worst of all, Hiruma _wasn't even a very good athlete_.

Takami Ichirou was trying to sleep, and was _in his actual bed_.

Hiruma Youichi was _sitting on his foot_.

“What,” Takami said, reaching for his glasses and rubbing his temples, “could this _possibly_ be about? And –” he cut Hiruma off, “do I even want to know? Perhaps you should just – just do whatever it is, and leave.”

Hiruma grinned manically, stupid vampire teeth glinting out of his little-boy face. Words flurried through Takami's mind – delinquent, attention-seeker, idiot – until, glasses safely atop his nose, every thought was driven out because _rocket launcher, rocket launcher, rocket launcher_.

“What in the _hell_ do you think you're playing at?!” Takami hissed furiously. “Don't you know that – can't you see – this building is a Tangible Cultural Property!”

“Yeah?” Hiruma asked, smirking, and putting down his duffel bag at the foot of Takami's bed. “And ya shitty team's hopes of goin' to the Christmas Bowl are gonna stay an Intangible Cultural Property, on account of how they ain't ever gonna write your name on that cup.” He used an absurdly point-toed shoe to push his bag under the bed a little. “Point?”

“You can't – you can't just _bring that in here_ , you _can't_ ”

“Bring what in here?” asked Hiruma lazily, blowing a large pink bubble in his gum. And indeed, the rocket launcher was nowhere to be seen. “Don't be such a fuckin' boring old man. So anyway, what ya got?”

“What – what have I got? You're here to talk _strategy_?”

“Sure! We both want to take that dicksplash Kongo down, right? Let's _share notes_ , ya shortsighted piece of shit.”

“It's –” Takami spluttered, “eleven at _night_ and you, you – surely you could have _emailed_?”

Hiruma looked at him with obstinate incomprehension. “Yeah, I could. But it ain't like you live on the moon.” He blew another bubble.

Takami sighed, and pulled himself into a proper sitting position, arms draped casually over his raised knees. He pointedly yanked his foot from beneath Hiruma's skinny buttocks and gave the invader what he hoped to be a superior, worldly look, and tutted just once, at the edge of hearing. “So desperate for the pleasure of my company, Youichi-kun?”

Hiruma's eyes lit up in apparent delight. Save us from idiots attempting to be punk, the scrawny bastard was wearing winged eyeliner. “ _Youichi_ , is it? Ya fuckass motherfucker, _so_ thrilled to hear we're on first name terms already. Let's drop the endings and also let's just fuck here and now. I mean hey, you're already undressed. You got some nice arm muscles there – why not drop the covers and show me the rest?” He playfully batted at the edge of the blanket, which was drawn up to Takami's chest, and of which he hadn't previously been terribly conscious.

Two could play at that game.

“Why, _Youichi_ , I didn't know you cared.” Takami reached over and faux-casually placed a hand on Hiruma's thigh. His ridiculous skinny jeans were faintly damp to the touch – was it raining outside? “Or are you just after a compromising picture for that obscene book of yours? Because I _do_ have a secret.” He raised himself to his knees, and let the blanket fall beneath him, leaning in to gently lift Hiruma's jaw, and meet his unblinking, amused gaze. “ _I'm not afraid of you_.”

Hiruma cackled in appreciation, and just when Takami thought he was going to draw back, leaned in towards his ear and licked it. It felt pleasant enough, but Takami was hardly in the frame of mind to actually get turned on by the maniac, whatever he was personally into or – not into.

“ _Nice cock, four-eyes,”_ Hiruma hissed, and it took every well-honed muscle for Takami to override his equally well-honed twitch reactions – covering up his nudity was only going to make things worse at this point. _How was this happening_? Takami asked himself flatly – he'd been halfway to _sleep_ just now and suddenly he was _inches_ from slapping his dick into a known sociopath's hand. _He just asked to talk strategy_ , Takami's traitor brain reminded him – but of course, Hiruma never meant what he said, nor said what he meant.

“It's not bad, is it?” Takami bluffed, grinning, and running a finger up the top of Hiruma's ear, and off the end of his prosthetic point. Hiruma grimaced, grabbed Takami by the shoulders, and pulled him straight down on top of himself. Takami was by far taller and broader – he had to outweigh him by a good thirty pounds – but he was naked, and he hadn't initiated this, and it was undoubtedly a compromising position – somehow more for him than for Hiruma, despite the fact that Takami was on top. Besides, Hiruma was cold and damp and disgusting to touch. This had to change.

“Oh, _Ichirou,_ ” Hiruma cooed, running a clammy hand up his back.

“You're disgusting,” Takami retorted, giving a brief pause to see if Youichi reacted: of course, he didn't. “Get in the shower, you cold, awful person.” He pulled back, taking the blankets discretly with him; Hiruma smiled smugly up, without rising.

“Can't wait to see me naked, can you, ya four-eyed fuck?”

Takami rolled his eyes theatrically, and Hiruma kicked off his shoes, which looked cripplingly expensive. “That way,” said Takami, pointing – “it's en-suite.”

“ _Faaaaancy_ ” crowed Hiruma, sashaying into the bathroom with an air of relaxed menace. And for ten minutes there were nothing but ordinary shower sounds.

The _fuck_ kind of ploy was this?

Takami sat on his bed, knees up to his chin, listening.

Hiruma definitely hadn't run away; there were the unmistakable sounds of bathroom products opening and snapping shut. His feet were squeaking slightly against the floor as his body moved.

At one point, he began to _hum_.

Takami leaned down to peer under his bed. The duffel bag was still there. There was absolutely a rocket launcher sticking out of one end. Gingerly, he pulled the bag out a little and glanced into it. There were _grenades_ too, but apart from that – the stupid notebook, chewing gum, a gumshield in its case, textbooks, his laptop, a football, an assortment of cheap-looking mobile phones, and a change of clothes. Nothing remarkable, or at least, not remarkable considering whose bag it was. Tinged with faint and inexplicable guilt, Takami stuffed the bag back under again, remembering too late that it was filled with _live explosives_ – but nothing came of it in any case, and he settled down, head on the pillow, feeling stupid for having jumped.

Hiruma emerged from the shower, his ridiculous blonde hair slicked to the sides of his head. It was now apparent that without all the styling Hiruma had a shaggy, terrible haircut. Roots weren't bad, though. His makeup was gone, but he hadn't removed the prosthetic ears. Could they _possibly_ – no, that was _silly_ , no human had six-inch ears, it was probably just that the stage glue was difficult to set or something.

Of course, if a person _did_ have unbelievably silly-looking ears, then playing it off as a theatrical motif would certainly be one way to go ab- _cock_ , _cock_ , _cock_ , he'd taken the towel away from his body and started using it to dry his hair.

Black pubes. Takami didn't know why he'd expected anything else. He looked up again slowly, having realised that Hiruma was waiting for a reaction.

Takami smiled faintly at him. “Didn't fancy bleaching those, then?”

“ _Keh_. Catch me putting bleach near my dick.”

“Fair. Why the hair, though?”

“Looks baller, and furthermore, fuck you.” Hiruma tossed the towel at Takami and got under the other end of the blanket. His warm, faintly damp feet shoved insistently against Takami's legs until he was comfortable; he was still a little wet from the shower, but this wasn't half as unpleasant as touching him had been while he was cold. The bed was a single – naturally – and two near-adults couldn't fit easily. Takami tried to subtly shift his bad leg away from Hiruma's kicking feet in the hope that he would avoid being painfully jostled, revealing his weakness – if, that is, Hiruma didn't already know, and wasn't saving the knowledge to strike at the most devastating opportunity.

“You are,” murmured Takami, feeling foolish for stating the obvious, but also feeling that he had a part to play here, “in my bed.”

“Gonna do something about it?” grinned Hiruma, giving up on getting comfortable at the other end. He brought his body round against the cold wall, insinuating himself under the blanket until Takami relented, and moved closer to the edge of the bed, Hiruma leaning up on one elbow at the corner of his pillow.

Belatedly, he hoped there weren't too many tissues in evidence.

“I'm going to ask you _why_ , I think,” replied Takami, in an even tone.

“Go on then,” smirked Hiruma.

“Um. Why are you in my bed?”

“It's cold and the bed looked comfortable. You're the fucker who told me to go shower.”

Takami suppressed the urge to sigh. This wasn't getting him anywhere. The thought occurred to him that Hiruma might actually genuinely be hitting on him – but with Hiruma, how could you tell? He looked closely at Hiruma's expression for a brief moment. Still warm from the shower, his lips looked full and soft, and there was a faint pinkness across his cheekbones. A graze just beneath his jawline looked fresh, and made Takami move forward imperceptibly, wanting instinctively to lick it: he could smell Hiruma, past the soap smell, and it wasn't a bad smell at all. Hiruma's flinty eyes glittered and locked onto his. His blushing lips parted, revealing those too-sharp teeth, and Takami found himself watching Hiruma's toungue as he spoke: “Want a taste?”

Takami's breath caught in his throat. _A ploy,_ his brain screamed at his instincts, _it's got to be a ploy_. But he'd always found it hard to wrap his mind around Hiruma, and while he could absolutely imagine a gay kiss being used as blackmail material, it surely wouldn't have much weight if the honey trap was _also_ the captain of a football team, and _also_ had students who looked up to him?

Takami leaned down, placed a broad hand on Hiruma's shoulder, for balance, and kissed him smoothly and without hesitation. “Fine,” he smiled, withdrawing. “But I warn you, if it's a taste you're offering... then think of me as a gourmet. I'm not going to be satisfied with just a bite.”

Hiruma looked faintly surprised, which was immensely gratifying – though the look faded fast. _He's seventeen,_ Takami reminded himself, _he's younger than me, and he's just a human. Could even be his first_. But finally, he stopped analysing the situation, because Hiruma was pushing himself up into Takami's arms, and he felt so warm, and his skin was so soft but his muscles so pronounced, and he was a writhing, living thing, his sharp-nailed fingers clawing into Takami's hair and pulling him down into a deep, long kiss. Hiruma's tongue was probing Takami's mouth; he tasted faintly of toothpaste and he must have stolen Takami's toothbrush, but somehow, right now, Takami didn't mind all that much. Hiruma's tongue was long and strong and slipping between his lip and his gum, and Takami was desperate to reciprocate, but went gingerly: the fangs hadn't slipped out of Hiruma's mouth at all, and were looking increasingly, well – real.

Without withdrawing from the kiss, he gently ran his tongue up Hiruma's front teeth, and felt no join. _He's just_ , thought Takami, who was starting to find this whole thing hysterically funny, _a really weird-looking guy_! He let himself relax to his side, and thrust an arm under Hiruma, drawing him into an embrace. Hiruma let go of the kiss and was pressing his face into Takami's, nuzzling and panting, then returned to kiss him once more. This one was slow, and thorough: Takami felt the blood rushing to his groin A new thought occurred to him. He ran his thumb up the edge of Hiruma's ear again, and felt him shudder, and press closer, his erection against Takami's leg, and sticking a little as they moved to hold each other tightly. Hiruma released Takami's lips, gasping, and caught his breath as he planted smaller, defiant kisses along Takami's jaw. For such a formidable opponent, Takami knew, there really was a substantial difference in size between them. He considered Hiruma to have a masculine body, though his wrists, ankles and waist were all narrow, and though he wore makeup and didn't seem to care what people thought of his general presentation. But holding him like this made it _seem_ as though he was small and light and fragile, and Takami was aware that any clumsiness could do him harm – it wasn't how he'd imagined being with a man. But then, most people were shorter than Takami, and he'd aggressively worked out since he'd failed to make first string in middle school. Perhaps he would always be the larger partner, forever. It was seeing _Hiruma_ though, he mused, looking overwhelmed and outgunned and – Hiruma licked his earlobe, making him tingle all over – actually, rather tired. It wasn't just the absence of make-up; Hiruma was sinking into the sheets.

Takami felt he understood just a little more than he had earlier. He smiled at him, and pulled the blanket over Hiruma's shoulder, barely resisting stroking his grazed jaw. Instead he stroked his hair: already starting to spring back up, it made his opponent seem a little more like his usual fiery self.

Hiruma looked defiantly up at him for a moment, an _if you fucking tell anyone_ look, but softened slightly as Takami continued to stroke his hair.

“It's been a useful strategy talk,” Takami said, reassuringly. “I've learned a lot.”

“'Course you have,” murmured Hiruma, rubbing his face into the pillow slightly. “I'm a genuine bone-fide motherfucking genius.”

He was still hard – Takami could feel it pressed against him, in the tiny bed. This was reassuring: his first kiss with a man hadn't put him to sleep, he was fairly sure. It was what it was, he supposed, and perhaps in the morning he would know more. He lowered his own head to the pillow, careful not to knock Hiruma off the tiny shared space, and watched him for a little while.

He had expected to see some real change in Hiruma's sleeping face, but it wasn't really there. He looked softer, younger, of course, but that was probably true for every human on the planet. His mouth was half-open as he breathed slow, heavy breaths, on the edge of snoring, and Takami could see a little pink piece of chewing gum balled into the side of his cheek, apparently undisturbed by their kissing. He resisted the urge to remove it, reminding himself that Hiruma seemed to be a compulsive gum-chewer, and presumably hadn't choked to death yet.

Eventually, Takami turned out the light, let a heavy arm rest on Hiruma's shoulder, unsure of why he felt he should take the role of protector, but determined to do it anyway.

 

In the morning, Hiruma was gone.


End file.
